Glass exploded inward.Light and sound detonated together.
Francesco spun—
Creed came through the room like violence given form.
Three shots.
I felt them before I saw them.
Francesco folded, blood spraying the floor.He screamed.
Creed didn’t.
“Don’t move,” Creed said, his voice shaking with restraint.
I collapsed.
He was beside me instantly, hands on my face.
“Are you hurt?”His voice cracked.“Peyton—are you hit?”
“No.”I fisted his shirt.“I’m okay.”
Behind us, Francesco groaned.
Creed looked at him once.
The look chilled me.
He kicked the gun away and pressed his boot to Francesco’s throat—not crushing.Reminding.
Sirens wailed closer.
Creed pulled me into his chest, holding me like the ground had fallen away.
“Jesus,” he whispered.“Jesus, Peyton.”
I broke.
The sobs came ugly and unstoppable.He didn’t stop them.Just held me.
Police flooded in.EMTs followed.
They worked on Celine with brutal efficiency before rushing her out.
“Is she alive?”I choked.
“Yes,” Creed said tightly.“Barely.”
Francesco screamed as they cuffed him.“This isn’t over—”
“The Barone family will finish you,” Creed said calmly.
Francesco went still.
They dragged him out—bleeding, broken.
And for the first time since Ray died—since the money, the threats, the shadows—
